Jaune Arc had a mind to keep walking past the commotion taking place in the middle of the encampment. Today was one of the few days where he had no tasks to fulfill for his liege and he intended to exploit that freedom by doing things for himself. He had just filled up his pail with water from the creek running through the camp so he could start cleaning up.

That was until a curious turn of his head froze him in his tracks.

The Tartars had returned from their raids with a small group of captives. One of them, his heart screamed, was too precious to be defiled by these bloodthirsty heathens. By the time he squeezed through the throngs of buyers, the Tartar captain had already put forward the 'best for last.'

Jaune knew too well that this remaining slave girl would not last under the circumstances he himself had gone through. So he did the only thing that seemed rational at the time.

He bought her.

He raised his voice, threw out a price so astounding that it shocked the other buyers and even the captain. Jaune knew too late what he had done and quickly made up his mind. He took the risk and set down his pail to haggle against his competition, putting down nearly all of his savings, until the Tartar captain reluctantly acknowledged his offer. Jaune promised to deliver the payment later in the day to which he was handed the chains, the key, and his prize.

He found himself standing rigid among a disbelieving crowd, realizing now what he had done.

A slave owning a slave. Never in his life had he considered becoming one. Himself a slave, Jaune toiled, bargained, and bled to achieve his standing among the Tartars; where he was deemed too valuable to be discarded among the front line fodder of his heathen overlords. If his parents ever found about his circumstances—or, God forbid, his sisters—then they would probably be shocked to know that their only son was actually still alive and then absolutely horrified that he was now a weapon wielded by these rampaging hordes from Tartary.

"P-please, d-don't hurt me," the slave girl squeaked.

Jaune gazed down at his purchase. In his right, he carried his pail of water while his left grasped the chain that led to the binds on her hands and feet. Seeing her broke his heart.

Short dirty hair, reddened at the tips. A face mired in grime, eyes glistening with tears. The shackles around her wrists rattled with how much she was trembling. Her finely tailored dress had been reduced to muddy rags. It was probably the only thing she owned.

The girl curled her toes inward as her tiny feet trudged against the jagged gravel. Her shoulders shook with her head dipping to hide her fear.

She was crying again.

Jaune felt his throat dry up. He had acted on impulse to save this girl from a fate worse than death. He had risked his life and everything he attained by stealing her away from the cruel Tartars vying for something fresh and unsullied. Even as he led her away from the market, he felt the glares of his overlords boring into his skull. His heart pounded faster and faster the more he passed throngs of Tartar warriors and his fellow battlefield fodder, everyone throwing him looks that would have made melted iron.

Finally, he had reached his tent near the outskirts of the encampment. His own little shelter that he had rightfully earned through his hard work. It was a modest home; smaller than the yurts of the Tartars but wide enough to house a fire pit and his properties: his beddings, his food, and his tools. Despite their brutality, his overlords generously rewarded those who served admirably within their ranks and Jaune had little regrets for saving the lives of one too many important Tartars in the heat of battle.

"I-I'll be a g-good s-s-servant," the girl mourned. "I'll d-do whatever y-you want."

Jaune stared at her.

Lord above, she reminded him so much of his sisters. His heart couldn't take it.

"Stop," he ordered.

The girl caught her own breath. She stiffened, wide-eyed.

Jaune took a deep breath. Then another. And another. Until he mustered the strength to fully comprehend her fragile form with his own eyes. And the first thing that struck him were hers. Her eyes shone back at him like molten nickel. She was trembling before him, biting her lip, her tears still flowing from the fear that gripped her whole form.

So this was what it was like to own a slave. Now to behave like a slave owning a slave.

"What is your name?"

"Ruby, s-sir."

Jaune took in the faded floral embroidery sewn into her dress. Patterns of roses, tulips, and carnations decorated the hem of her garment, once bright with colors now faded from dirt and muck. That seemed to confirm his guess of where she came from. "Magyar?"

"Igen, uram."

So she was Hungarian, a native Magyar. Her family must have had some standing to afford her a dress that colorful. The poor girl. She was one of the lucky ones. Jaune tried to ignore the memories of what he had seen during the Tartars' rampage throughout the Magyar Kingdom, much less what they had done when they rode into the Rus' village he had been staying in two long winters ago. Bodies upon bodies, heaped upon the ashes...

He cleared his throat. "Sit."

Ruby glanced at his rug and eased down to rest on her knees, her hands obediently set on her lap, the cast iron cuffs being the ugliest thing on her person. She had calmed herself down at least.

Jaune rummaged through his knapsack until he found the rag he used to wash his face with. He brought his pail close as he knelt before her, moistened cloth in hand. He reached for her chin.

Ruby tensed. Her breath once again hitched in her throat at his touch.

He brushed away loose strands of her hair and wiped off the dirt from her cheeks. The action alone surprised her and left her gawking at him, her fear supplanted by uncertainty. Her pupils—Lord, they shone like silver—followed his every movement until the water in his pail ran dark with the filth that he had thoroughly cleaned off her face, neck, arms, and legs.

Jaune sat back and was rewarded with the most beautiful creature he had laid his eyes on since his capture on the banks of the Volga. Heaven forbid, his heart leapt at the mere sight of someone so pure.

"How old are you, Ruby?"

"Fifteen, sir," she answered tensely.

Just like his younger siblings. He had stopped praying a long time ago but a part of him wanted to mutter a soft petition to the Lord not to forsake his family as He had forsaken him. "Can you cook?"

She bit her lip, glancing away.

Okay. That was fine. The Tartar diet was simple to prepare. "Never mind that then. Can you clean?"

Ruby nodded hesitantly.

"That's good enough. Keep yourself busy and out of sight of the others. Stay close to me always. Understood?"

She nodded again.

"Okay." Jaune clapped his hands and looked around his tent. Other than the ashes spilling out from the fire pit, everything was in neat order. Then his eyes landed on the basket tucked underneath where he had hung his bow, quiver, and saber. Those tools saved his life as much as they sustained him on a peaceful day. He would soon have to teach Ruby how to use those. "Ettél már?"

"Mit?"

"Have you eaten?"

"N-no."

"That's okay." Jaune fetched the basket and fished out the chunks of salted meat intended to last him for another day. He sliced off small pieces on a tin plate and handed it to her. "Here. It's not the best but it's good enough to keep you going for the day."

Ruby stared at him. Her hands tingled with the hem of her dress while her eyes bounced between him and the food that he was offering her.

"It's okay. I won't be mad. I didn't buy you to starve you," he insisted, cupping her hands and squeezing the plate between her fingers.

Ruby stared at him again before she dug in with gusto.

Jaune watched her eat. Desperate but refined. The Tartars undoubtedly fed her the bare scraps for goodness knows how long before they threw her out into the market with the other slaves. He made sure that she would not indulge herself too much lest her weakened body reject her sustenance.

"Slow bites. Take it easy."

Ruby obeyed. Bit by bit, she consumed what would have been his lunch and dinner for today. But that didn't matter. He could always get his share from the quartermaster. For all their evil, the Tartars had proven to be field the most organized armies he had ever known. A wise commander refused to let his soldiers starve, no matter their ilk. And the Tartars had many wise commanders.

Jaune wondered whether or not he gave up his hard-earned place among the Tartar soldiery by stealing this girl away from them. His heart beat faster at the consequences. Ah, but consequences be damned for the sake of this girl. If it meant saving Ruby from the worst of them, then let his head roll on the block. Their loss. The Tartars begrudgingly admitted that he was a good servant and a fine soldier.

"Köszönöm," Ruby said. "I-I mean, ez nagyon kedves tőled, uram. Ah, uh, th-thank you, m-master."

He held out his hand. "Please, don't call me that."

"But I'm y-your servant now."

"I'm not your taskmaster."

"Um, wh-what do you want me to call you?"

"Call me Jaune. My name is Jaune."

Ruby blinked. Her fear had gone now. Instead, she raised a confused brow. Well, better that than her being constantly terrified of him.

"Jaune?"

"Yes," he answered with a smile. "Jaune. Jaune Arc."

"That...does not sound like a Tartar name."

"Do I look like a Tartar?"

"No. You don't." Ruby tilted her head. "You're not a Tartar. You don't even sound like them. Why are you fighting for them?"

"I didn't volunteer if you're asking me that."

"So...you're just like me."

"Yes." Jaune sighed, setting aside her empty plate. "My family hails from Champagne but most of my life I spent in Masovia."

Ruby was silent. Curiosity completely displaced her fear.

He continued. "I was not one to stay in one place for long so I took my leave to find my fortune elsewhere. It was exciting while it lasted. Then one wrong choice led to one wrong turn and, well, wrong place, wrong time."

"And so you got yourself captured?" Ruby chuckled. Then, as immediately as she giggled, she clasped her hands over her mouth in abject horror, cuffs rattling. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to laugh—"

Jaune chortled. And her hands fell from her face to her lap. Her lips stretched to her cheeks and she let out a soft laugh. That grew louder. As did his. And they laughed at each other.

"Okay, so I admit that it was a mix of me being stupid and me trying to be a hero that got me into this mess," Jaune said with a shameful grin. "As long as it's me and not my sisters."

Ruby's smile faltered. "Huh. Yeah."

He caught himself and asked, "You have...I mean...your family?"

"My father and my sister. I know they're alive out there and I hope they're alright." She let out a heavy sigh, raising her wrists to jingle the cuffs that were beginning to leave nasty marks on her skin. "I hope they're not in this same state as me. I hope they escaped from these...men."

Jaune wanted to ask her more about her sister but decided against it. Ruby was clearly uncomfortable with the topic and broaching it would probably lead to her thinking about her captivity. He reached into his satchel and felt for the key to her binds. He wanted to get those ugly steel rings off of her, to set her free, to restore what had been taken from her.

He took her hands, shaking her out of her stupor, and felt for the keyhole. In a moment, it was over. Her wrists were red and sore but they were no longer bound. As were her ankles. The cuffs fell with an audible noise and she rubbed at her skin, speechless at what he had done.

She snapped her head at him. Then at the key that he unceremoniously dropped in front of her. The smile he gave her was natural, warm, true.

As was the sudden hug she gave him.

Jaune was taken aback at this girl who had thrown herself on him. Her arms were around his neck, her head over his shoulder, tears soaking his tunic as she openly wept her many thanks. Something inside him burst and he wrapped his arms around her to let her release herself fully to him.

She thanked him in the language of the Latins, and in the language of her people, and in the language of his people. And she refused to let go until he pulled her off him.

His cheek felt damp and he brought up his hand to wipe it. Only then did he realize that he, too, had been crying.

The both of them formed the growing number of European slaves indentured to the Tartars. Against his comrades, he had become one of the lucky ones. As did Ruby. But how long would his fortunes hold? For him and for her?

Sooner or later, his liege would find out about his purchase and would likely make demands. Or the envious buyers might attack him in the night and steal her away. He could be ordered to sally forth on a raid and be the first to be gored on the spears of the desperate Hungarian defenders.

"I won't let them hurt you," he told her. "On my word as an Arc."

She smiled the warmest, widest smile. "Thank you. Jaune."

With her hands in his, he made a vow to himself. The Tartar lords Subetei and Batu were dispatching riders deeper into the lands of the Hungarians to plunder and destroy, and sending vanguards further west to scout the other kingdoms to ravage. As slaves to these murderous heathens, they were bound to follow and obey. Be as it may, wherever they would be taken—through the twisting landscape, over the ruins of mighty cities, past bloody battlefields that would rival Lignica and Muhi—Jaune would see to it that Ruby was safe.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 8, 2019

LAST EDITED: August 6, 2019

INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 9, 2019

NOTE: I've been playing Civilization III: Conquests again recently. I was playing as the Mongols.

Translations:

Igen, uram. = Yes, sir. [Hungarian]

Ettél már? = Have you eaten? [Hungarian]

Mit? = What? [Hungarian]

Köszönöm... Ez nagyon kedves tőled, uram. = Thank you... That was very kind of you, sir. [Hungarian]